


Lungs

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, treacle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's not really a whole lot to summarize here: it's gratuitous schmoop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> I should be revising one story and writing another. Instead, this happened. As per usual with these super short fluffy fics, neither beta'd nor brit-picked.

Sweat cools quickly in the chill air of the bedroom. The windows aren’t precisely well-sealed and the furnace is on the fritz. Again. Having sex to keep warm, as it turns out, only really works until you’ve finished with the fun bit. Once you’re through with that, you’re left sweaty and it’s still chilly in the flat and clammy just kills the after-glow.

John sighs and is pretty sure he’d be able to see his breath if there were more light.

“We should shower,” he observes, making no move to get up or even disentangle himself from Sherlock’s eight or twelve long limbs. His voice is wonderfully post-coital, deep and slow and quiet and suffused with what Sherlock can only ever call ‘content’.

“I don’t think I can move,” Sherlock replies, much to John’s delight.

“You’re welcome.”

“Shut up.”

A chuckle rumbles through John, not much more than a vibration deep in his chest.

Shortly thereafter they both start shivering, what with the cold air and the sweat cooling and the slowing heartbeats and the fade of adrenaline, so John finally sits up and grabs at the sheet, the blanket and the comforter. He tugs them up over the both of them as he flops back, spends a minute cocooning them; they snuggle close together.

“So, negative on the shower, then?”

“Hrmph,” Sherlock replies. He turns on his side facing John, nudges and harumphs until John does the same, until they’re facing each other, close enough to share breath, close enough for Sherlock to tangle six or eight of his octopus arms around John again, pulling him close and purring. About the only time Sherlock goes truly sweet and tender is just after he’s been well-fucked. It’s a contradiction that John loves, that he gets to see these moments, this strange, soft side of Sherlock. He revels in it.

“John,” Sherlock says, eventually, when their foreheads are pressed together and they’re sharing breath. He lifts a hand to press against John’s chest, over his heart, searing his handprint there in his mind, staking his claim.

“Hmm?” John drags his eyes open.

“I think... no, well, I know, actually--”

After a moment, John opens his eyes again. “Know what, Sherlock?” His voice is still doing that quiet content thing, and Sherlock shivers.

“You’re my heart, John,” Sherlock whispers.

It’s as close as John’s ever heard to an ‘I love you’, perhaps as close as he’ll ever get. But he hears what Sherlock means.

Sherlock watches him; John’s eyes flutter and then brighten, until they’re glowing. A slow smile spreads across John’s face and Sherlock wants to join him but can’t. Can’t yet.

John nudges Sherlock’s chin up, kisses him slow and tender. John has the best slow and tender kisses, and sometimes Sherlock feels bad for all the other people in the world, the ones who will never get to experience these kisses that say without words, “I’m yours and you’re mine and I mean to keep it that way amen,” but he’s glad too, because those kisses belong entirely to him and Sherlock is gladly and entirely selfish in all matters pertaining to John Watson.

John kisses him, kisses him again and then again, before pressing their foreheads together again. He thinks to himself, _I lost my breath the moment I laid eyes on you, Sherlock Holmes, and you haven’t given it back yet_. But that’s not what he says.

He lays his hand against Sherlock’s cheek, rubs his thumb over one cheekbone, strokes down to rest his hand at Sherlock’s nape; it’s one of his favorite spots on Sherlock. (It’s one of Sherlock’s favorite places for John to claim as well. It makes him feel safe and _wanted_.)

John keeps smiling that smile at Sherlock, that one that Sherlock understands implicitly, because really when have they ever needed words? And Sherlock starts to smile in reply, because honestly? That’s enough. John speaks, though.

“And you, Sherlock, you’re my lungs,” he says, before giving him more of those slow and tender kisses. Sherlock decides he could subsist on those alone, if it weren’t for the pesky lack of macronutrients.

It’s not until late the next afternoon, while Sherlock is down fiddling with the furnace and quite frankly probably making it worse rather than better, that John realizes that, had he spoken his initial thought aloud, that probably would’ve worked just as well as a declaration of his love.

But this is John Watson we’re talking about here, and he’s not too proud to admit to his mild poetic streak. He’s a man in love, and he likes to extend a metaphor, and he likes that the man he loves appreciates that, even if John himself is a bit slow on the uptake sometimes.


End file.
